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Common in her bright red Mini Metro. “And if I’m late for my appointment I’m going to kill you.”
    On the common, people were cycling and rollerblading and walking dogs and flying kites.
    John said, “But think about it. Nobody else could have known that Mr Rogers was visiting Mountjoy Avenue except us. Otherwise the police would have been round to see us already, wouldn’t they?”
    â€œI don’t know. I still think this is insane.”
    They turned at last into Mountjoy Avenue. It was a long tree-lined road with huge Edwardian redbrick houses on either side, most of them concealed behind high walls or laurel bushes. A few of them had been converted into nursing homes, and one of them was a doctors’ practice with a shiny brass nameplate outside, but most of them were still private. Lucy drove along to the far end of the road and stopped outside number 60.
    â€œ66 is further up,” said John.
    â€œYes, but real detectives don’t park their car right outside the suspect’s house, do they?”
    They climbed out and cautiously approached number 66. It had a wall topped with cast-iron spikes, and heavy black cast-iron gates, but the hinges had rusted long ago and the gates couldn’t be closed. Beyond the gates was a curved shingle driveway, and a chaotic front garden filled with weeds and overgrown shrubs. Five stone steps led up to the front door, which was guarded by two stone lions, one of which wore a poisonous green cape of dried-out moss.
    The house itself was enormous, with turrets and balconies and gambrel roofs. Scaffolding had been erected on one side of the house but there was no sign of any workmen. All of the windows were dark and blank. High on the slated roof, a weathervanewas stuck pointing NE, where the coldest winds came from.
    John and Lucy walked halfway up the drive, their footsteps crunching in the shingle. They stopped and listened. Inside the grounds of number 66 it was oddly quiet, even though there was a main road only a hundred metres away, and a children’s playground at the end of the street.
    â€œYou’ve got the keys?” asked John, and Lucy held them up, swinging them on the end of her finger. “Let’s hope that Mr Cleat doesn’t notice they’re gone.”
    â€œHe won’t. You won’t catch
him
daring to go through Mr Vane’s desk.”
    They approached the front steps, and cautiously climbed up them to the front door. The door itself was painted in blistered black, with a huge bronze knocker on it in the shape of a snarling animal’s face. “That’s welcoming,” said Lucy.
    John peered through one of the stained-glass panels in the door, one hand shielding his eyes, but all he could see was a blur of blood-red light.
    â€œAre we going in or not?” asked Lucy. “I haven’t got very much time, remember.”
    John nodded. “Let’s do it.” And Lucy slid the key into the lock, turned the handle and opened up the door. It didn’t groan, like a door in a horror film. Instead, it opened in total silence, which John found even creepier.
    â€œAfter you,” said Lucy.
    They stepped into the hallway. It was high and gloomy, with a checkered tile floor and dark oak panelling all around it. On the left-hand side stood a huge carved hall-stand, with hooks and mirrors and a place for propping umbrellas. On the right, a wide oak staircase led up to the first-floor landing. On its newel post stood a bronze statuette of a blindfolded woman holding up a torch.
    â€œPerhaps we’d better split up,” John suggested. “You take the upstairs and I’ll take the downstairs.”
    â€œI’m not splitting up,” said Lucy. “This place is far too spooky for me.”
    â€œAll right, then. But we’d better be quick.”
    They walked into the living-room. It was enormous, with five huge windows overlooking the front of the house and